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Pizza slinging done for the night --After-hours Budweiser consumed.Close the back door.Silent dark streets, ocean roar off to the right -- Japan, China, Hawaii, over there.Beach condos, occupants asleep.Dark waves rolling in.Walking down the sidewalk damp with mist,My shadow goes first before me, then behind, slave to the nearest streetlamp.Cut down from the well-lit cul-de-sac,Squeeze between a wall and some barbed wire,Follow a sandy track to the base of the cliffs.Dark, calm sea, a slopping wet hugenessClawing softly at the shore. I strip and roll my clothing up,Wade into water black as pitch.The sandy shelf tips sharply downI feel like a pencil about to rolloff the edge; three or four stepsAnd the wetness closes over me,limbs floating in a threatening womb,Fathomless, pulling, down, down, deeper --Appalling to the inner ear;I try to float, abandoning effort, weight,and thought, but I can'tDo it. Clearly I see a gleaming knotof twisted iron. That's me/it's death.Back in the land of the living --My wallet, My pants, My glasses. I'm wet skin.Walking with shoes on back to the travelall.Down the freeway under serials of arc-lamps.

There was a man who had a band And a pocketful of sand He took my hand And in my eyes He looked to find Another kind of mind there

It was an Ahi Sandwich moment A real tantalizing torment to realize we'd never make it to the moon Might even work until we jerk Upon the end of the hangman's rope Ah you could hope Like the fellow at the Owl Creek Bridge Never to wake From the last dream

It's a soft-focus night, moonless and mute.Truck-light on the freewayfilters through gentle rain driftingfrom the mountains,cloaking the valley.

In the upper reaches of the valley,a southward-running ridge,a finger of forest reachinginto the drylands of California.Winds stream by,Stirring the tall trees,Bearing a harvest of clouds.To the north -- coolness and moisture.In the south -- valleys filled with dry grass.There is tension between the two.They lie next to each other,all along the spine of the Siskiyous,everything touching, licking each otherwith tongues of clouds.In the morning,The fruit of their loveis fresh-fallen snow.

A tiny man of flesh and boneWandering over the frozen dirtThat glitters with countless crystalsOf frozen water,Will gaze about him andBeneath himAnd discoverA lack of tethers,A great silence ready to respondWith echoes only to his any word.Tree bark, lichen-patched stone,Blades of dried grassesRimed with frost--One need only forgetTo be utterly lost.

Residing on a spinning ballWe cannot depart from But only fall into,We forget the cliff,The abyss of no experienceInto which we will tumbleWhen death pulls his abruptAnd exceedingly impractical joke.